


A Thousand Times Over

by Minxie



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seemingly random choices often times are the cornerstones to relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Times Over

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: This fic deals with rape, specifically the aftermath. The rape itself is off-screen. The content, however, may be triggering for some people.**  
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction using names and faces associated with actual trufax people. I do not know these people in any way, shape, or form outside of what they show the public. Which, IMO, is a very sucky thing. Just sayin'.  
>  **Prereaders:** vl_redreign, thraceadams, sunshinyday5762, and sidhe_arien. All remaining mistakes are mine.  
>  **AN:** This is not necessarily an Adam/Tommy fic. The exact path of the relationship between Adam and Tommy is up to the reader.

They're high. Off their nut, stumbling up the street, freezing their asses off but not caring _high_. Amsterdam is the shit.

"I love Amsterdam."

"You just like making the pearl-clutchers squirm," Tommy snorts, grinning and bumping against Adam's shoulder. The concert has both of them giddy. The weed is just making it better.

"Yeah, I do like that," Adam hums in agreement. "But I think I really love Amsterdam. You know, just for being Amsterdam."

Tommy's shoulders vibrate with the giggles working their way through him. He opens his mouth to respond and then, when some unknown comes from out of nowhere and steps right into their fucking way, snaps his mouth shut. Because the guy is raising all sorts of alarms in Tommy's head. Alarms that say _shut up_ and _run, fucker_ and he doesn't know how much of it is the high and how much is being in an unfamiliar place and how much is just flat the fuck out warranted wariness.

"Um, excuse us," Adam says, hand gripping Tommy's elbow tightly as he tries steering them around the guy. Obviously Adam's _ho, what the fuck?_ meter is dinging just as much as Tommy's.

The knowledge doesn't make him feel any better.

The dude steps in front of Adam, cuts him off with an easy stride that really shouldn't have been possible, and then, eyes wide and feral, asks, "You or him?"

They both stop short. Tommy shakes his head, tries to make sense of the words, tries to slot them into some sort of order where they'd be even halfway sensible. He just can't do it. Not in this place and time. "What?"

"It has to be one of you." The guy's eyes darken, a flush springs out on his cheekbones. Then, looking right at Adam, he growls, "You or him? Your choice, pretty boy."

Adam shifts his arm, tries shoving Tommy behind his larger frame, and then, voice ringing with newfound clarity and an edge sharp enough cut glass, hisses, "Neither."

"Wrong. It has to be one of you."

Tommy cants his head to the side and looks the stranger over, eyes moving quickly but still cataloging everything. The dude is clean. Like overly, just got out of the shower, didn't even ride in a car, too starched to be comfortable _clean_. And he sounds coherent, like he knows what he's saying and doing. It's a direct conflict to the look in his eyes and the actual words spewing out of his mouth. The skin on the back of Tommy's neck prickles.

This fucker is dangerous.

"One of you has to fall, has to endure. Has to hurt, maybe even bleed." The guy looks at Adam, arches one brow. "Choose, Adam."

Adam stiffens. Tommy can feel the rigid set of his shoulders, almost hears the way his back straightens, each vertebra falling into place, locking into place. Then Adam whispers, "How?"

And he knows that Adam has clued into how _real_ this surreal moment truly is.

"How?" Adam asks again. "I don't know what the fuck it is you expect me to…"

Tommy puts a hand on Adam's arm, stopping the flow of words. He steps away from Adam, moves closer to the stranger. "Me." He swallows against the bile rising in his throat and, ignoring Adam's demands to _stop this shit right the fuck now, Tommy Joe_ , repeats, voice stronger, more controlled, "Me."

A look of smug satisfaction crosses the stranger's face. "So it will be."

Then he turns and walks away, leaving Adam and Tommy standing on an empty street corner in Amsterdam, cold and shaking and so damn sober it hurts.

* * *

  
Tommy follows behind Adam quietly. Through the hotel lobby and then into the elevator. He doesn't even try to reach around Adam and push the button for his floor. Adam is so keyed up he's fucking vibrating. Bucking against that, against Adam in a state, is something Tommy learned not to do early on in this whole gig.

The sound of their feet dragging against the carpet, of Adam turning the doorknob too hard, breaks the silence of the hall. Then Adam slams the door behind them and paces the length of the room once, twice, and then a final third time before stopping in front of the window, staring out into the night.

Tommy leans against a stretch of empty wall. Waiting and watching.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"What were you thinking?"

The way Adam asks, voice low and gravelly, is all Tommy needs to know how serious the question is. Adam only yells when he's fighting with Neil, sibling bonding or some shit, or when he's in true queen-out mode. This controlled tone, the measured cadence of his words, means Adam is most sincerely pissed. Another thing he learned just days into working for Adam.

And since he can't lie for shit, he can only hope the truth at least derails Adam enough into calming down. "That I'm not you."

"That you're not… " Adam stops and shakes his head. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

He bites down on his bottom lip. Tommy's much more nervous, much more afraid now than he was with the piece of crazy on the street. He knows Adam's temper, has seen it vented at various and sundry people. And he knows that his next statement is going to send Adam into fucking orbit. Steeling his back, he says, "If he was out to do serious damage, it would have been better if it was me. You can find another… "

"Shut the fuck up!" Adam roars. "Just shut the fuck up right now."

He backs up, inches away from Adam. Not that he believes Adam will hurt him, but because his self-preservation instinct is a finely honed thing. "Adam."

"No," Adam snaps, shaking his head. "That wasn't your choice to make out there. That wack job was talking to me."

"Adam," Tommy whispers again. "He was killing tiny pieces of you just by asking."

"And watching him hurt you wouldn't have killed me?" Adam draws back, face pulling into a frown. "How dare you make that assumption, Tommy Joe."

Tommy shakes his head. "It wasn't like that. All I could think was that he wanted an answer, that the longer we drew it out, the crazier he was gonna get. And," Tommy drags a hand through his hair, "and, I meant what I said. I'm not you. There are more people depending on you. You're the star, irreplaceable. I'm just the… "

A rumble of noise – denial, frustration, hurt – rumbles out of Adam. "No. Do not even finish that."

"You wouldn't have picked me. I know that." Tommy sighs and looks away from Adam. "Even if you should have, you wouldn't have. Sometimes you need protecting from yourself, Adam."

Adam glares at Tommy and then, closing his eyes, sighs. "Apparently so do you."

* * *

  
Tommy stops looking over his shoulder in Birmingham. The same can't be said for Adam. "I'll cancel Paris."

"No, you won't." Tommy doesn't even look up, just keeps folding his clothes and stuffing them into his suitcase.

"Then let me book another hotel room. You can hang there. Have a vacation."

"I'm so not playing third wheel in your little tour time adventure with Sauli," Tommy snorts. "Besides, if I go to Paris, there will be no telling the fans we're just friends ever again."

Adam gives him an incredulous look, his eyes almost comically wide. "Like I give a shit about that right now. Seriously, Tommy, that guy… "

"Was in Amsterdam. I'm going to L.A." Tommy shifts his gaze from his underwear to Adam. "Dude, really, you're gonna make me snap off in your ass if you don't stop. He was cracked out on something, trying to scare us. He had his fun. Now, really, let it go."

"There's no talking you out of this, is there?"

He ignores the kicked puppy look Adam is giving. Just huffs a noise under his breath and then says, "Finally you're catching on."

"Something just feels off about this." Tommy rolls his eyes. It's like the hundredth time Adam has said that in the past two hours. "I really think we need to stay together."

"Look, I plan on getting laid." He zips his suitcase closed and turns his full attention on Adam. "First night back, I'm crashing. Second night? Man, I'm finding pussy. And while you may be bi-curious, I'm not working the threesome angle with you. That's, like, a sure way for me to be embarrassed."

"Embarrassed?"

"I've felt your dick, Adam. No way I'm gonna compete against that."

The comment does exactly what Tommy hoped: shocks Adam into silence.

Hands on Adam's back, Tommy starts pushing him towards the door. "Now, have fun. Fuck his brains out. Come home relaxed and ready to write epic music."

Adam grins as he stumbles through the door. "You are such an ass."

"Yes, but you love me this way." Cocking his head to the side, he adds, "Say goodnight and goodbye. I'll see you in Philly."

"Just, Tommy," Adam stops a few steps away from Tommy's door, "call me if you need anything. Okay?"

"Would have even without the permission."

* * *

  
Tommy wakes up slow, lips curling up in a satisfied grin. Not a hotel room, not another fucking foreign country. He's in his apartment. In L.A. Home at last. Then he looks at the clock and frowns. Because while _he_ is in Cali, his internal clock is still half a world away.

He pushes off his couch and stumbles his way to the toilet and then, after washing his face and brushing his teeth, heads for the kitchen. He snorts, unimpressed with himself, when there's nothing in the fridge besides beer and some too-old-to-count sliced cheese. He really should have hit the store before passing out.

At least, by L.A. standards, it's still early enough to go shopping. Snatching up the car keys – and thank fuck his mom made sure that was gassed up before he got home – and his phone, Tommy starts making a list in his head. Milk, cereal, coke, frozen burritos and pizza. Maybe bread and some kind of meat. Doritos. And some Jack. Assuming the liquor store next to the market is still open.

He shivers when he steps out into the night air. Not really cold, not like he was just last night. But it definitely isn't summer time. Jumping into the car, he mutters, "Fucking store run in the dead of night."

Twenty minutes, and much cursing, later, Tommy pulls into the near empty parking lot. He looks around and grunts to himself. It's the first time he's ever seen the place not at least half full of cars. And even if it is a little creepy, being so empty and barren, at least he won't be contending with frazzled parents and screaming kids cluttering up the aisles.

He locks the car door and, stuffing his hands into his pockets, rushes towards the store. He glances back once, the feeling of being watched making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The empty parking lot seems even more menacing now. The feeling doesn't fade under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights.

Tommy rushes through the store, grabbing a hodge podge of groceries, enough to last the few days before Philly, and decides that the run to the liquor store can wait until the sun breaks and takes the shadows away. He tells himself that there is nothing there, that he's on edge because it's the first time in months that he's been completely on his own. That he just got too used to always having someone around, to having people who understood middle of the night munchies runs.

By the time he checks out, Tommy has no idea what he bought. He knows there's milk, there's a few boxes of cereal. Enough frozen shit to feed him for a fucking couple of weeks or more. But he couldn't tell you what, couldn't name a single fucking thing if he had to.

Outside again, he tosses the plastic bags haphazardly into the backseat of the car, wanting, _needing_ to get back to his little apartment right the fuck now. And then, just as he slams the back door, as he reaches for the front door, a deep and rasping voice has him stopping, frozen in place.

"Hello there, pretty boy."

Turning around, Tommy's eyes go wide as a man steps out of the shadows and all up into his personal space. The guy reminds him of that fucker in Amsterdam. His eyes or his voice or something. Enough that Tommy's willing to bet that it's the same fucking guy.

Pushing back against the car, inching his hand towards the handle, all Tommy can think is thank fucking fuck that Adam is in Paris, is as far away from this crazy motherfucker as possible.

* * *

  
Home.

He needs to go home.

Home. Home. Safe. Safe at home.

It plays over in his head. Pushes him to turn the key over in the ignition, to negotiate the city streets until he's pulling into the complex parking lot.

Home. Finally. Almost safe. Definitely safer.

"Come on, come on," Tommy whispers, his hands shaking as he fits the key into the lock, his eyes darting over his shoulder, watching and watching and watching. When the lock finally gives, he pushes in fast, slams the door behind him and, fingers working the deadbolt, leans against the wood and tries to steady his rapid breaths into something normal.

Normal. Something he doubts he'll ever be again.

He drops the keys on the tile by the door, winces when they clatter against the ceramic, loud and obnoxious in the quiet of two in the morning. He toes his shoes off, and then his jeans and underwear, his phone stuffed deep into the pocket and forgotten.

He looks away from the mangled pile of denim and cotton. Dirty and torn and spotted with blood.

 _Just like him._

He blinks against the tears, swallows against the acid rising in his throat, and pushes that thought out of his head. Concentrates on getting out of the clothes and into a shower. Works against the urge to hide and cry by telling himself that getting clean is the first step and everyone knows the first step is the hardest.

The hoodie and tee come off in one go. He lets them fall somewhere between the living room and bedroom and walks – _runs_ – into the bathroom, closing and locking that door too. Just in case.

He retches into the toilet, heaving up until everything he's ever thought about eating is purged from his body. Then he retches more, stomach clenching and rolling and fucking revolting with hate and loathing and goddamn despair. His eyes water – not tears, not yet; just a natural reaction to fucking vomiting up twenty-nine years of comfort and safety.

Tommy stands on shaking legs and starts the shower. Promises himself a fucking drink and a goddamn pill of some kind, something to dull the pain, _if_ he can just make it through the shower. A hot shower. Hot enough to get rid of the dirt and the echo of _his_ touch. Hot enough to peel skin and let him start fresh and new and with a pain he gave himself.

The night in Amsterdam filters through his brain, right along with the guy's whispered parting shot tonight, and a high, maniacal laugh bubbles out. Because, yeah, he gave himself this, too. Stepped right from behind Adam and took the choice away. He claimed it. Owned it.

With the tears falling freely, Tommy shakes his head. He'd owned it all right, but now it pretty much owns him.

* * *

  
The groceries are still in the car.

It's a random thought. One that Tommy has when he wakes up shaking, a scream hovering on the tip of his tongue, and has to walk through the apartment, avoiding the scattered remains of his clothes, to dig through the cabinet in the kitchen looking for something – _anything_ – to take. As long as it'll calm him down, he really doesn't give a fuck what it is.

He finds the bottle of Xanax, the script that was necessary when they started flying all over the fucking place, and shakes a pill out. He chases it with a beer. And then with another. Not the brightest move, he's sure. But on the scale of recent events, not the dumbest one either.

He curls up on the couch, pulls his blanket in tight against him and tells himself he'll get the groceries later. With the television droning on in the background, Tommy dozes off again.

* * *

  
He's fucking cold. Even with sweatpants and a hoodie and the fucking socks he bought in Finland, he's cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. He bumps the heat higher, wraps the blanket around his shoulders and locks his muscles, ignoring the tenderness in his joints, the outright pain in his ass, in favor of getting the shivering to stop.

The clothes are gone. Stuffed into a black garbage bag and pushed out onto the small patch of concrete the manager called a deck. His phone is on the charger, silent for the time being. And other than Dave dropping off the bottle of Jack – and Tommy feels kind of shitty for brushing Dave off by claiming the jetlag finally caught up with him – everyone has pretty much left him alone.

Tommy breaks the seal on the liquor and, after downing a healthy three fingers, contemplates taking another Xanax. Contemplates it long enough that he has a pill in the palm of his hand before he sighs and drops it back into the little brown bottle.

He pours another drink, easily double of the first, and alternates between tiny sips and deep mouthfuls as he tries to make a plan, tries to figure out a way to deal with this without everyone finding out.

The bleeding stopped sometime during the last nap and the pain is something he can self-medicate away. That scratches the trip to the doctor off the list. Thank fuck.

He has the NOH8 photo shoot this week. Unavoidable.

And Dougie is bringing his mail over and there's the promised ustream to the fans. Again, unavoidable because he wants to be able to thank the fans. He knows without them none of this would be happening. A stuttered bark of laughter surprises Tommy, because, yeah, _none_ of this would be happening.

He uses the knowledge that he has a few days, has time before the photo shoot and the mail call to try and smooth out the tattered edges of his sanity.

At least there is nothing more. No other must do, be seen activities. Maybe, if he tweets a few times, texts the people closest to him, claims resting and relaxing in his new place, it will be enough.

He thanks a God he doesn't believe in that Mia is calling the east coast home these days. She'd never be kept off so easily.

Tommy literally steps back when his phone goes off with Adam's ringtone. He tunes out the trashy porn movie music, stands stiff straight and just stares at the phone until Adam's name blinks off the screen and the voice mail icon shows up. Adam is one person he can _not_ talk to right now. Can't put on a false voice and a plastered smile. Can't lie to. And he sure as hell can't tell him the truth.

Because, no matter how much he _wants_ to talk to Adam, Tommy knows that if he does, if he hears Adam's voice, he'll beg Adam to come home. Beg Adam to come home and take care of him. Which is ridiculous. Because there is nothing wrong. He's fine.

He clenches his shaking hand into a fist. "Fine," he murmurs. "Everything is just fucking fine."

Finally he walks away, glass tumbler in his hand and the phone left on the counter, wondering how in the hell it's only been twenty-fours since he landed in L.A.

* * *

  
He reads through the list of Grammy nominations on his laptop. Finding Adam's name grouped with people like John Mayer and Bruno Mars is almost like a validation. Tangible proof that Tommy hadn't been talking out the side of his ass when he'd named Adam as irreplaceable.

Because the nomination sure as fuck doesn't mention anyone except Adam, damn sure didn't call out Tommy by name.

Tipping back the bottle of Jack – the tumbler long forgotten in the name of efficiency – he opens up Twitter and does what is expected: tweets Adam.

 _@adamlambert SO fucking proud of ya, Babyboy!!!!_

He looks back over the words, checks for typos, and then hits the button. It should keep everyone off his back for at least one more day.

* * *

  
He's outta Jack. He glares at the empty bottle then out the glass doors to the garbage bag still sitting on his deck and then finally to the car keys on the counter.

"The sun's up. It's the middle of the day." He grabs the keys with shaking hands. "Just a quick run to the store and back. Don't have to talk to anyone."

He's fucking terrified.

Swallowing, he grips the keys tighter and opens the door. He rushes to the car, eyes cutting left and right, looking and searching and watching. He's never gonna stop looking over his shoulder. Never. He's sure of it.

The drive isn't bad. There's enough traffic and foolish ass fuckers on the road to force him into paying attention, to keep him from thinking about the other night. About _that_.

Inside he grabs Jack and Bailey's. Three bottles of Jack, just to be safe. Bailey's to help take the morning after bite away.

It's when he's back in the car, when he's backing out of the parking place and he looks over his shoulder that it all goes to hell. Because he's staring right into _the_ alley.

The shadows – and memories – are overwhelming. And how the fuck did he forget that little detail? How did he not fucking remember that the liquor store was right fucking next to… that it shares an alley… that he'd be so goddamn close to…

Tommy slams the gear shift into drive and steps on the gas. He hears a horn blow and the screech of tires and he's pretty sure that he cut more than one someone off.

But, Christ, he has to get out of there. Out of there and home. Fast.

Because some-fucking-how he forgot.

* * *

  
Tommy steps out of the shower and, eyes glancing towards the door to check the lock, starts drying off. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that four showers in a day is a little obsessive. Kinda like the way he keeps straightening shit around the house and dusting and sweeping.

He just can't help it, can't resist the lure of being clean again.

And yet, even with his skin reddened – rubbed damn near raw in places – and the apartment clean – verging damn close to hospital sterile – Tommy still feels dirty. Dirty and used and broken.

"Get it together, Ratliff." His days are clicking off too fast. The NOH8 shoot is tomorrow and then the next day he flies out to Philly.

He has got to get control of this shit before then. Has to have the shaking under control, has to be able to be around people – around men and fans and Adam – without giving it all up with just a look.

He's got a day to make everything, to make _himself_ appear to be fine. One more day of hiding behind closed doors and eating cereal out of the box and watching cartoons when the shadows get too dark. One more day and then he has to let the real world back in.

In the back of his mind he knows it's a pipe dream, that there is nothing he can do to make 'fine' happen right now. That it'll take one look and Adam will know and then everything – _Tommy_ – will fall to fucking pieces no matter where they happen to be.

Tommy hopes to fuck that it isn't on stage.

* * *

  
Leaving the house for the NOH8 shoot takes Xanax. And Jack. He hasn't been outside, not even to check the mail, since the most fucked up trip to the liquor store.

He's surprised that it doesn't take more to get his ass into the car and driving.

The shoot goes off without a hitch. The men in the room never really come close to him, and the make-up artist is a chick that reminds him of Chantala with her bubbly nonstop talking and her mad skills with a make-up brush. Soon enough there's a mask in place, something for Tommy to hide behind. Visine works wonders on the red in his eyes and he doesn't look nearly as plastered as he is when the proof sheets are pulled up on the computer.

On the way home he goes ten miles out of his way to a liquor store. There is no way in hell he's going back to the one near his house, right next to _that_ store, _that_ alley. Not now. If ever.

Doug is waiting, leaning against the door jamb when Tommy pulls into his parking space and kills the engine. He won't admit to the amount of sheer relief he feels at seeing a familiar face. His lips quirk into a sheepish grin and, grabbing the bag out of the backseat, he waves. "Sorry 'bout running late."

Nodding in return, Doug looks pointedly at the brown bag from the liquor store. "Planning on more than a liquid diet?"

"That's what delivery is for, man," Tommy replies. Because, yeah, grocery stores are pretty much on his not gonna happen list right now.

Doug laughs and, muttering something about youngsters and living the high life, moves around Tommy and into the apartment. Tommy totally appreciates the fact that Doug doesn't mention the way he stills and flinches away when Doug comes close to touching him. Appreciates even more how, after that first time, Doug avoids their usual friendly touches all together.

He keeps the urge to scream at bay throughout the entire stream. He's sure he sounded a little off, a little confused. Especially with having Doug direct damn near his every move. When it's finally finished, it's all he can do to not snap and take Doug's head off at the shoulders. Rushing his friend out the door seems like the safest bet all around.

He settles down as soon as the door is locked and his apartment – _haven_ – is his alone again. Despite the slight freak-out at the end, Tommy counts the day as a win.

He pours a drink and lights a joint to celebrate. And maybe to bring on enough sleep to lighten the bruises hidden beneath the make-up.

* * *

  
Drinking while in flight is nothing new for Tommy. Nothing out of the ordinary. It's probably the most ordinary, normal thing he's done in days. And he has to admit that being tucked in between Monte and Isaac has him relaxing more than he has since… since everything happened. Especially since they caught on real quick and are leaving his personal space empty.

He knows he's safe here between them. Safer even than in his apartment with the doors locked. Because Monte and Isaac will put up a hell of a lot more fight than a fucking deadbolt will.

He surfs the web, plays with Monte on Twitter, and manages a half-assed reply to some chick who wants to fuck him. Even if the thought of sex has him calling the flight attendant for another drink.

He gives an almost audible sigh of relief when Adam texts that his plane is delayed and he won't be in until the next day.

Tommy is nowhere near ready for that little reunion.

* * *

  
It's the little things that make Tommy lose control, that make him lash out at whoever is nearest to him. It's part of why he's worked so hard at avoiding people, at staying away from his friends and family. Unfortunately, in the hotel room, there is nowhere to hide. Not when Tommy is – as usual – sharing space with Isaac.

When he flies off about the hair dryer, or rather the lack of a hair dryer, Isaac steps back with his hands raised in surrender. "You alright, man?"

Tommy closes his eyes, silently berates himself for looking like an ass, and nods. "Yeah, sorry about that."

"Maybe you can get Beiber's, huh?"

Tommy chuckles at that and then tweets it to the masses.

"Tommy?"

He looks up to find Isaac staring at him, worry and confusion written all over his face.

"Are you okay? I mean, you dipped out of the yoga thing and I figured, you know, _yoga_." Isaac shrugs, but doesn't step any closer. Almost like Tommy is a shy, skittish animal that has to be approached with caution. "But, I'm thinking, that maybe you got more on your mind than anyone realizes."

He shakes his head. "I'm fine. Just feel like an idiot for wigging out over a damn hair dryer."

"If you're sure…"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Everything is fine." Tommy makes a show of calling the front desk for a hair dryer and then, while he's on hold, says, "Better get ready, yeah? Sound check in thirty."

And that is part of Tommy's issue right there. Sound check. Because it means in thirty minutes he'll have no choice but to see Adam, to talk to Adam. After he's avoided him for the entire week. He's really not in the mood for this.

During the actual sound check Tommy manages to keep his eyes averted, cast down as he watches his fingers work the strings of his bass. And when he's got the bass stored away, when he's bracing himself to face Adam, someone calls for 'Mr. Lambert' and, as they're leading Adam off stage, Tommy hears them talking a mile a minute about Christmas stories and how much they appreciate that Adam agreed to read some of them.

All that really sinks in is that he has a little more time to find some liquid courage.

* * *

  
Music Again is first on the set list. Tommy goes through the motions of playing. He trades place with Monte, fronts a lean towards Adam, then eases back to his place on the stage and out of the lights. His fingers are swift and sure on the bass, but his entire body is trembling. There's way too much out of his control.

Forty minutes of this is going to kill him.

When Cam starts the first strains of Fever, Tommy freezes. He knows Adam won't kiss him, most likely won't even touch him. Too many little people in the crowd tonight.

The knowledge doesn't break the tension that is flooding through him.

Then Adam is right in front of him and Tommy looks up and for the first time since Europe they're looking into each other's eyes and, when Adam's eyes go wide and he flubs _Fever_ in a spectacular way, he knows the secret is out.

Maybe not entirely. But enough was obviously there that tonight, after the show shuts completely down, there's going to be hell to pay when Adam gets him alone.

He just never expected it to be Adam fucking up and coming a little bit apart over it.

* * *

  
Tommy blows by the band, waves off Lane's questions about signings and dinner, and retreats to the hotel. He's tempted to ask about a room, pay out of his own pocket just so Adam can vent without an audience, and then he can get completely shitfaced without Isaac's disappointed daddy look. Instead he heads straight to the room and the bottle of Jack he bought as soon as they'd landed.

He hurts. His body fucking aches, a deep in his soul sore, and his brain is spinning in a million directions at once. He needs a goddamn drink, needs to get his body under control before Adam arrives. Because there is no doubt whatsoever that Adam will be banging on the door sooner rather than later.

Barely fifteen minutes pass, just enough time for him to toss back one drink and start sipping on another, before Adam is knocking on the door.

Tommy opens the door wide and motions Adam in, mouth dropping open when Adam shakes his head and stays in the hall. "Are you sure?"

"Huh?"

"Are you sure?" Adam draws each word out. "I mean, on stage you looked like you were ready to bolt, like you were afraid."

Tommy hears the 'of me' that's left hanging off the comment. Shaking his head, he motions Adam in again. "Not of you, Adam. I'm not afraid of you."

As Tommy shuts the door – sliding both the bolt and the guard into place – Adam picks up the bottle of Jack. "Am I going to need a drink?"

A wry laugh escapes from Tommy's lips. "It only helps for so long but give it a try if you want."

"So, everyone's worried about you. Haven't seen you at all, say you've been different since meeting up at the airport. Either too quiet or trying too hard." Adam sets the bottle down and turns, props a hip on the table and stares at Tommy. "What going on, Tommy?"

He opens his mouth, an 'I'm fine' waiting to break lose, then, sighing, just takes another mouthful of Jack.

"What happened?" When Tommy still doesn't answer, says, "You know you can tell me."

Tommy shakes his head again. He really can't tell Adam. Not just because he doesn't want to – and yeah, he _doesn't_ want to – but he can't. He can't say it. He's tried. Tried while looking at himself in the mirror, tried when the apartment was dark with only moonlight filtering through the blinds. He's tried saying it drunk and sober and stoned. He's fucking tried. But the words will not come.

"I can't." His voice breaks. Two simple words and his voice fucking breaks. Adam steps closer, arms out like he wants to hug Tommy, and Tommy panics. It's been too much – the flight, the crowds, the playing – too much to have anyone this close to him now. Even Adam is too much. He pushes back until he's against the wall and his breaths are coming out in a static rush. Throwing up a hand, Tommy rasps, "Don't, okay? Just… stay there."

"Tommy? Baby?"

Tommy sinks down to the ground, back pressed in flush against the wall. He pushes the glass of Jack off to the side and, drawing his legs up, wraps himself into a tight ball. He feels the burn of tears and blinks, hopes he can keep them at bay for at least a little while longer.

"You were hurt."

It's not a question, doesn't require a response. Tommy nods anyway.

"Can I…" Adam squats down, puts himself on eye level with Tommy, then points at the empty length of wall next to Tommy. "Can I sit there?"

Tommy nods again, snakes a hand out and retrieves his glass. "Yeah. Just, you know, there."

Adam crawls across the floor and, leaving a few inches between them, sits back with his legs stretched out in front of him. "Okay?"

After cutting his eyes over to where Adam is sitting, Tommy says, "Okay."

He feels like an idiot. This is exactly why he's avoided Adam and his fucking daily ass phone calls. He's never been able to keep Adam at a safe distance. And now he's on the verge of falling apart because of that.

"Can you tell me who hurt you?"

It's not a question Tommy anticipated, not one he tried to prepare himself for. He jerks his head up and, before he can drop his eyes again, sees recognition in Adam's. He gave himself away. Again.

"No. No fucking way." Adam leans forward, follows Tommy gaze without inching any closer. "Tell me I'm wrong, Tommy."

"You're not."

"That wack job? The guy in Amsterdam?"

Tommy gives a fast snap of his head. "I wasn't sure. Not at first. He looked familiar, kinda sounded the same."

"But you're sure now?"

Tommy jumps, pulls his body in tighter. Adam is being too precise with his words, the syllables coming out hard. He knows Adam is pissed. He just doesn't know if it's at him.

"How?" When Tommy doesn't answer, Adam adds, "How do you know, Tommy?"

"Something he said." And he hopes against hope that Adam won't ask what, won't ask him to repeat it. Fuck knows he's heard enough in his dreams; he damn sure doesn't want to give them voice.

It's a futile thing to hope for.

"What?"

"It doesn't matter," Tommy tries. "It was him, okay?"

"Tell me, Tommy." The words are growled. If Adam wasn't pissed with him before, putting Adam off, ignoring the question will get him there in a hurry.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tommy whispers, "He said I should have let the choice be yours."

He hears Adam push to his feet, hears the tell-tale clink of glass scraping against the table, and the smell of Jack fills the room.

"What did he do?"

He still can't say it.

Blinking, Tommy looks up and lets everything show in his eyes, hoping that it's enough for Adam to figure it out.

It's enough.

Adam hurls the glass across the room, his words – _Jesus fucking Christ_ – echoing over the sound of breaking glass.

The tears finally break loose, trickling over Tommy's cheeks, dripping off his chin. It's the first time he's cried since the night it happened, since the night he stood beneath the shower head, hiding his tears, his pain and his anger and his fucking hurt beneath the cover of falling water.

He's not hiding it this time.

"Why the fuck didn't you call me?" Adam is pacing the room, the words, the questions, the accusations coming out fast and hot. "I _told_ you to call me. Trusted you to not shut me out. What the fuck, Tommy Joe?"

"What was I supposed to do, Adam?" The question is soft, hardly over a whisper. But it's enough to catch Adam's attention. "Call you up while you were a world away on fucking _vacation_? And say what? I _still_ can't fucking say it."

The more Tommy talks, the louder he gets until he's shouting the words from the floor. Shaking and crying and shouting.

"What would you have done? Really? From Paris? What _could_ you have done?"

Adam drags a hand over his face, pulls his fingers through his hair. Dropping down to the bed, he sighs. "Been there for you, Tommy. I'd have been there for you."

"Not from a continent away, Adam." Tommy braces against the wall, inches higher until he's standing up. "This was mine to bear. Remember? My choice. There was nothing you could have done. Not from Paris, not even from L.A."

Tommy keeps his eyes on the floor, hugs the wall and moves around the perimeter of the room. He darts his eyes up once, just as he steps into the bathroom. "Lock it behind you. I'm done for tonight."

"Tommy."

"I can't, Adam. I can't give you any more right now."

He hides in the bathroom, his face pressed into a towel, until he hears the door shut in the other room.

* * *

  
Tommy sits in his Florida hotel room – self-paid and all alone for it – and twirls his glass. The flight had been another one of those 'only on GlamNation' clusterfucks and he wishes that, instead of heading to New York, Adam had been the one beside him on the plane, was here with him now. Partly because he's _Adam_ , but mostly because Adam knows his secret.

And, as cliché as it sounds, a burden shared halves the weight. A cliché that Tommy knows to be true. Because the breath-stealing crush against his chest has lessened, just enough that he doesn't feel like he's constantly drowning.

It's not enough to make him confide in Isaac or Monte. Not enough to even let the words break free, let him actually name and claim and own what happened. But enough that he can – and does – finally catch his breath.

He fingers his phone and, sighing, gives into the desire. He texts one word to Adam: _Busy?_

Not even a minute passes before the ridiculous old school porn music sounds in the room. Tommy's lips curl up as he answers. The ringtone had been Neil's idea. He's kinda glad he kept it. "You didn't have to call me."

The noise of a television sounds behind Adam's voice. "Have to? No. But not gonna pass up the chance."

They're both silent, the sounds of the nightly news and ice clinking in glasses crosses over the normal hiss of a cell phone.

It's Adam who caves first, asking, "How was the flight?"

Tommy shakes his head. "Like you don't know. Isaac was tweeting death music as soon as we were on the ground."

"Yeah, I called Monte. He said it really was a nightmare trip."

That makes Tommy wince. Adam would have called him before. "Yeah, pretty much. Listen, I just…" He stops and swallows, flicks his tongue across his lips, then starts again. "I'm sorry I avoided you. I just couldn't, not right then. Not over a phone call."

"I would have come home." The words are hushed, softly spoken and all the more powerful for it. "You have to know that, Tommy. I'd have taken the first flight back for you."

"I know." And he does. But he also knows Adam being there would have hurt more. "But I wouldn't've been able to deal with that. I wanted to be alone."

"Fair enough."

Tommy can almost hear the wheels turning in Adam's head, knows he wants to ask something but is skirting, holding back. "Go ahead, Adam."

"When?"

There is no doubt about what Adam is referring to. It's one of the things Tommy usually likes most about being around Adam, the way they can hold entire conversations without actually verbalizing every word and thought. "First night back."

He hears Adam suck in a breath. "Fuck."

An appropriate curse if he's ever heard one. "I just wanted to say thanks for last night. For talking and then for backing off and shit."

"It was hard, leaving you."

Asking Adam to leave was hard for him too. He keeps that to himself.

"I don't want you to be afraid of me, Tommy Joe."

"I'm not." Tommy huffs under his breath, because, yeah, that was a lie. He's pretty much jumping from of his own shadow still. "Well, I am. But it's not _you_. When you sat there next to me, that was good. I felt…"

"Safe?"

"Yeah," Tommy agrees. "And that kinda makes me feel like an idiot."

"Why?" Adam truly sounds confused. "We all want to feel safe. Sometimes more than others, but it's natural to want that place where it's okay to not be on guard, to know someone has your back."

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, wiping hard at his face when a lone tear escapes and rolls over his cheek. "It was never a question before. Safe was never something I had to think about. I just was."

"You will be again, Tommy. We'll get you there."

It's a promise. He feels the promise as much as he hears the words. It makes another tear slide down his face. He sniffs, then swallows. He's got to get off the fucking phone before he completely loses it. "I gotta go. Take a shower, find some trashy shit on the tube to charge to the room."

"Call me later?" Adam's words are hesitant, like he's walking a minefield and doesn't know exactly where to step. "If, you know, you want to talk to someone."

"If I call anyone, it'll be you." Honesty at its core. And more than Tommy wants to get into right now. He's about to hang up, his thumb is hovering over the end call button when Adam's voice sounds again.

"I mean it, Tommy. There is nothing that is more important."

"I hear ya."

"But do you believe me?"

Tommy smiles at that. Adam knows him a little too well. "Yeah, I do."

After he ends the call, Tommy curls around a pillow and, for the second time in as many days, cries. Cries for the easy friendships and the freedom and the confidence that just isn't there anymore. He cries for what he lost, for the things he didn't even know could be stolen away.

He cries because his life is totally out of his control.

* * *

  
The two days between arriving in Florida and Adam meeting them there are quiet. The first night, after his call with Adam, Tommy spends too much time in his room thinking and pondering and, at times, crying. He wakes up with a headache not brought on by Jack and an ass full of attitude.

He wants his life back.

The second night, he goes out of his way to reconnect with Isaac and Monte, going to a club and having a couple of drinks and just sitting around shooting the shit. It's something small and ridiculous and has Tommy hyped beyond reason. He's fucking proud of himself for simply just hanging out, even if he did retreat back to his room hours before the others.

He's taking back control. One fucking minute at a time.

When Adam walks into the venue, ten minutes before their sound check, Tommy offers up a real smile. It's small and still shier than his usual. But it isn't forced at all. Adam quirks an eyebrow and grins in return.

He still steps back, retreating when people – _Adam_ – come too close.

Tommy tells himself not to get pissed. Reminds himself that Rome wasn't built in a day. It doesn't work.

He always did think that was a stupid fucking saying. Who gives a shit about Rome anyway?

* * *

  
The ball is in Tommy's court. He knows it. And if he didn't, it's a proven fact when Adam keeps his distance on the stage. It pisses him off, brings a new type of anger to the forefront of his emotions. This isn't them. Wasn't even them in the beginning.

Before he can think about it, given the time limit of the set, he walks over and leans into Adam, drapes along Adam's back like he's done a million times before.

He feels Adam go stiff, then immediately relax into the touch. Then Adam looks over his shoulder, gives Tommy a fast look filled with pride before turning his attention back to the crowd.

Tommy drops his head forward, resting on Adam's shoulder. It feels fucking close to _normal_.

He can't stop the smirk from showing when he slinks back to his mark on the stage.

* * *

  
Tommy wants to go home. Last night took it out of him. More than he'd thought. More than he thinks is reasonable.

Because it wasn't like Adam _made_ Tommy touch him, wasn't like he'd even asked for Tommy to be normal again. It wasn't like Tommy was forced into something he didn't want, not like before. And still _before_ is exactly what filled Tommy's nightmares.

 _That_ voice. _Those_ eyes. _His_ hands. The cold scrape of the wall tearing against his stomach and thighs, the sour scent of the guy's breath. The pain and humiliation, real and very much tangible, wrapping around him and pulling him beneath the surface. Again.

He wakes up shaking and sweating and feeling dirty all over. Ready to flee, to run away.

He wants, _needs_ to be surrounded by the familiar white walls of his apartment. With a few clicks of the mouse and a full dose of Xanax, Tommy is in business class and headed out at six in the morning. He sends a text to Adam and Lane from the air, leaves them to make an excuse to Monte, Cam and Isaac.

* * *

  
Fresh out of the shower, hair still damp and wearing a loose pair of sleep pants with one of Adam's tees he stole somewhere between Arizona and Oklahoma, Tommy looks through the peep hole and sees Adam standing outside his door. "What the hell," Tommy murmurs, working the locks free and opening the door. "What're you doing here?"

Adam shrugs. "Just got into town, thought I'd swing by. See the place."

"And check on me?" Tommy motions Adam in and points towards the living room. "Come on, I'm having pizza and beer."

"You cut out of Miami in hurry." Adam drops down on one end of the couch, wrinkles his nose at the beer but takes a slice of pizza. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I mean, you were home before I even woke up."

Tommy gets up, grabs two glass tumblers and the bottle of Jack, and, after pouring out three fingers for Adam, says, "Bad night, man. I just needed to get back on familiar ground."

Sipping the Jack, Adam gives Tommy a serious look. "Thought you were gonna call me if you needed to talk?"

Pouring his own measure of whiskey, Tommy shakes his head. "I didn't need to talk. I needed to get home."

"You needed a friend." Adam downs the rest of his drink, reaches for the bottle and pours another one. "Please stop pushing me out, Tommy."

Tommy feels a blush creeping over his neck and face. He picks up the remote, flips through a few channels and then, grinning, asks, "ThunderCats good with you?"

"Really?" A huge smile breaks over Adam's face. "I used watch this all the time when I was a kid."

Grabbing another slice of pizza, Tommy leans back on the couch. "ThunderCats was the shit."

* * *

  
They're trashed. Drunk on Jack, high on weed, and surfing Cartoon Network, laughing at the crap they'd watched as kids. ThunderCats is still the shit.

"Got anything to munch on?"

Tommy thinks for a minute and then shrugs. "Come on, let's go see."

They go into the kitchen, Tommy rifling through cabinets and Adam leaning against the wall watching him. They both grin when he comes up with a bag of Doritos in one hand and pretzels in the other. "Name your pleasure, Babyboy."

Adam snatches the pretzels, opening the bag and diving a hand right in. "Oh, god. Salt."

Tommy snickers around a mouth full of Doritos.

"You're great, baby," Adam says and reaches out, wrapping his arm around Tommy's shoulders and tugging him into a hug.

"No, don't, fucking Christ," Tommy snaps, pushing at Adam's chest as he stumbles back, scrambles away from the embrace. "Don't touch me."

"Tommy, oh, fuck. I'm sorry." Adam holds his hands out away from his body and presses himself flat against the wall at his back, the bag of pretzels swaying with every move. "I'm sorry, I just thought, after the concert. That maybe since it's just me. And we're here. Tommy, say something. Yell at me, hit me, something."

"Why?"

"Huh?"

Tommy closes his eyes, lets his head fall forward. "Why do you want to touch me? Just, how can you even?"

"How could I not?" Adam's arms fall to his side and slowly, so fucking slowly, he inches closer to Tommy. "You're Tommy. You're _my_ Tommy. Touching you, hugging you, kissing you… it's natural and easy and right."

He shakes his head, denying Adam's words. "I'm not. It's not. Not now."

"Then what is it now? What are you now?"

"Broken."

Stopping just inches away from Tommy, Adam shakes his head. "I'd say battered and bruised. Not broken, baby. Nowhere near broken."

He opens his eyes, looks for the truth in Adam's words. "No?"

"No." He nudges Tommy foot with his own. "What else, Tommy?"

"Hurt." He lets the tears roll, doesn't try to stop them or brush them away, then watches as tears build and spill over Adam's lashes. "Very fucking hurt."

"I'd take it if I could."

Tommy snorts, drags his forearm under his nose. "My choice, remember?"

"And that's a discussion for another day."

He actually smiles then, a small quirk of lips. "Should have known you'd want to revisit that."

"Damn right." Adam catches Tommy's eyes and then, watching closely, he rests one hand on top Tommy's. "Still doesn't explain why you think I wouldn't want to touch you."

Tommy stares at Adam's hand, resists the impulse to jerk away. "He touched me, Adam. Fucking everywhere. I can still feel it. Around my wrists when he dragged me away from the car, the back of head, my waist. And… and… lower. I can't get rid of it. No matter how many showers I take, I feel him. I feel dirty." Tommy swallows. "I _am_ dirty."

* * *

  
They're back on the couch. Coffee in place of the Jack and Chinese take-out piled on the coffee table. Cartoons are filling the room with flashes of light and color and only a low hum of chatter. Adam's hand is resting palm up between them, close enough to Tommy's thigh that his fingers brush against the worn flannel pajama bottoms every time Tommy shifts.

"You're not, you know." Adam rolls his head to the side, putting his gaze directly on Tommy. "You're not dirty."

Tommy keeps his gaze turned to the television. "Doesn't feel that way."

"I don't know how to make you see what I see, Tommy." Adam says with a frown. "I don't know how to even just help you right now. It's not like you have a cold where chicken soup and a blanket is what it takes. Or like a skinned knee that just needs a band-aid and a kiss."

He creeps his fingers close to Adam's hand, traces the lines of his palm with a finger, and smiles. Adam is such a mother hen. "Being here helps."

"Yeah?" Adam blinks, turns his head to the side, away from Tommy's view. "'Cause, I really feel useless."

Tommy links his fingers in with Adam's and tugs, pulls Adam's hand into his lap. "Being here is good."

"Then here is where I'll stay."

* * *

  
Tommy wakes up in the middle of the night, the sheet and blanket twisted tight around his legs an obvious example of how shitty his sleep was. He stays still, listening for Adam, working out if he's up moving around or still asleep on the couch. What Tommy hears, when his heartbeat finally slows and his breaths even out, shocks him to his core.

Adam is crying.

Not loud, shoulder shaking sobs. But quiet hitches of breath and muffled words like _so sorry_ and _rather it'd been me_ and _oh, Tommy_.

When Adam's voice catches, when a sniffle and a cry and broken, choked off _baby_ collide together, Tommy works his way out of the bed and, on bare feet, pads into the living room. Adam is on the floor by the sliding glass doors, knees pulled into his chest with his arms crossed over them. His face is buried in the crook of his arm.

Standing a few feet away, Tommy can hear not just the words, but the guilt and pain prompting them. He can't help but cry with – _for_ – Adam.

He moves closer, eases to the floor and folds his legs beneath him. He lays a hand on Adam's back and, rubbing in gentle circles, whispers, "Adam, baby, please, please don't cry."

"Oh, shit," Adam stammers, rubbing his face into his arms. "I didn't mean for you to see this. I've been trying so hard to be strong for you."

"Crying doesn't make you weak." Tommy drops his forehead to Adam's shoulder. "Aren't you the one who told me that? Back when my dad passed?"

It earns him a watery laugh. "Using my words against me now? That's hardly nice, Tommy Joe."

Tommy fidgets, rocks back and forth on his knees. "Can I... if I hug you can you just, like, not turn around, not try to hug me back?"

"Do you _want_ to hug me or do you just think I need one?" Adam looks at Tommy, drags his fingers against the skin under his eyes, wiping tears and liner away.

"Both. But I think I need it too."

Adam's fingers curl into his jeans and he nods. "Take what you need."

Smiling beneath the tears, he wraps his arms around Adam's shoulders, props his chin on Adam's shoulder. "Song lyrics? Really, Adam?"

* * *

  
"We only have two days."

Adam looks up from the bowl of cereal, confused. "Okay, it's early. You're gonna have to give me more than that."

Tossing a balled up napkin at Adam, Tommy sighs. "GlamNation. Two days. You do remember the last two shows, right?"

"Yeah, and?" Adam scoops up another spoonful of cereal, stopping with the spoon damn near brushing his lips. "And, seriously, how many of my t-shirts did you steal?"

Tommy blushes. Because, yeah, he snatched more than a few. A couple of pairs of sleep pants too. They're comfortable, he isn't apologizing. "You weren't complaining when you wanted a shower and a change of clothes. And," Tommy draws the word out, "I'm figuring there won't be a shit ton of kids in the crowd at the last two shows."

"So? Still not following."

He rolls his eyes and takes a long draw of his coffee. "I need to get used to you touching me. In two days."

"Oh, fuck no." Adam drops the spoon into the bowl, ignoring the milk that splashes onto his hand. And the counter. "No way. Do you think I care about the fucking choreography?"

"You think I'll freak on stage." Tommy's voice is flat, accusatory.

"No," Adam snaps. "What I think is that you are important to me and there is no way in hell I'm doing something to make you uncomfortable. I've done enough of that already."

"I want to try." Tommy says quietly.

Adam rolls his lips inward then, words just as soft as Tommy's, asks, "Is that smart, Tommy? Pushing yourself like that?"

"I want my life back. I _need_ my life back." He drags a hand through his hair and looks away from Adam. "Can't you get that?"

Silence reigns in the kitchen. Adam is silent and staring at Tommy and Tommy is quiet and focused on a blank wall. Finally, Adam sighs. "How do you want to do this?"

Tommy shrugs. "Hopin' you could help me figure that out."

* * *

  
They're on opposite sides of the room, both of them glaring at other. Tommy hands are balled into fists, his only way to hide the ridiculous shaking. "I knew this was a bad idea."

"You asking, 'Is this okay?' every five seconds was the bad idea." Because, yeah, obviously he is _not_ okay, no matter how many times Adam asks. "Jumping up and walking away, yeah, that wasn't a much better one."

"Fuck you, Tommy Joe." Adam sighs and shakes his head, making his hair stand even more impossibly on end. "This is not going to work. You're afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you. And this is going to work." Stepping away from the wall, Tommy adds, "It has to."

"Baby, why do you need everyone to be able to touch by tomorrow? Why?"

"Not everyone." He knows better than to expect that. "Just you."

"For a fucking show?" Adam turns to stare out of the window. "It's not worth it, not worth this."

Tommy swallows. Adam's right. If it was _just_ for the show, this is stupid. But it's not. It's as much for him, _more_ for him as it is for anything else. Being ready for the show is just a bonus. "I miss it. Miss you, miss us," he whispers. And he means that. He misses the easy way Adam would drape his arms across his shoulders and the way they'd gravitate into each other's personal space. He's tactile, always has been. Not having that at all, not having that with Adam, is making him hurt. "I miss me."

Adam turns around and, wiping hard at his eyes, looks at Tommy. "I miss you, too."

"Then get your ass on the couch and let me do this."

Adam's lips twitch. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a bossy little bastard?"

"Almost every day for the past six months." Tommy sticks his tongue out before losing it and chuckling. Then, smile still curving his lips, he says, "Thank you."

Adam drops back onto the couch then looks at Tommy, all playfulness gone. "Told you, nothing is more important than you."

"I believe you." Then, with determination oozing off him in waves, he sits down on the couch and slides closer to Adam. "And don't start asking me if everything is okay. Fucker."

Hours later, when he is snugged up against Adam's side, watching some random shit flash on the tv screen, and Adam's head is lolling back on the couch, his mouth open and eyes closed in sleep, Tommy grins.

He _knew_ they could do this.

* * *

  
Adam keeps up a running stream of chatter, telling Tommy all about The Zodiac Show and his performance there and how cool it is that he was able to come back to this specific venue exactly six years later. Only this time as a headliner. The entire time his fingers are twined with Tommy's, grounding him through the preshow madness.

When people – the rest of their little Glamily – come too close, Adam shifts, slips his fingers free from Tommy's grip and slides his arm across Tommy's shoulders. He pulls Tommy in tight against his side, Adam's body absorbing the tiny vibrations of Tommy's shaking.

"Oh, I see how it is," Sutan drawls, stopping right in front of both of them. "A girl leaves for a drag show and his life partner takes up with the first tall drink of water with a pretty smile he comes across. Nice, Ratliff."

Tommy, fingers curling tight around Adam's waist, grins. "Didn't your momma tell you to never trust a man?"

Their laughter breaks the fine tension that was building in Tommy.

He stays in back, hiding in Adam's dressing room while Alisan performs. He's not ready for the dark recesses of the stage wings. Not yet, not alone. And Adam is busy with the final touches, things like glitter and making sure his coat is hanging just right, and can't go out with him.

He keeps his mind focused on the show, on his part to play in it. He jumps in his chair when Adam lands a hand on his shoulder unexpectedly.

"Okay," Adam says, "We stick with the choreography, no spontaneous gropes and grabs."

Tommy wants to hug him for the matter-of-fact way Adam is dealing with this, with him.

Before he realizes it, it's time to step out on the stage. His stomach is rolling, twisted up in a series of knots, and he's shaking, teeth chattering, like there's fucking snow falling in the building. He doesn't know if he's ready for this.

Then Adam steps up beside him, brushes their knuckles together and then, folding his hand over Tommy's, asks, "Are you sure?"

Closing his eyes, Tommy takes a deep breath. He offers a hearty _fuck you_ to the universe. Then tells himself that he really isn't broken, that he's gonna beat this, that this is the first step and he doesn't have to take it alone, that Adam is here, ready and willing to take that step with him.

He sets his shoulders, opens his eyes, and, staring at Adam, nods. He's ready now.

"It's my choice."

 

* * end * *

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Richard Bach quote: _Some choices we live not only once but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives._


End file.
